vehicle?”
“Jealous wife. Jealous husband.” The beard puckers. He is smiling.
“I am—was—mistress to this man.” She points to the Audi. “We are going to follow him. He is not alone. He owes people money.Much money. You understand?” She points left to the Land Rover. “You see?”
“I understand.”
“I would rather not be noticed.”
“Not easy to follow during nighttime.”
She passes a good deal of cash into the front seat. He won’t want to touch her. She drops it.
“Let us make it as easy as possible,” she says, avoiding the use of confusing contractions. “Our problem is: the ones following are very good. They will be watching for people like us. They do not wish to share.”
“This, not easy, ma’am.”
No,
she thinks.
“I tell you,” he says, pulling out now, five vehicles behind the Audi, already on the job, “I know this car company.” He motions with his head. “My brothel’s nephew”—she doesn’t correct his mistake—“the brothel to his wife’s sister, he is, how do you say, radio man, this company.”
“Dispatcher.” Grace appreciates his sense of extended family, the intermarrying of cousins, the generations of business relationships between families the size of clans. Tribes. Not so very different from her native China.
“Precisely. Drivers, we together.”
“I am sure.”
“I call my brothel?” he asks. “He call nephew?”
“How much?” She doesn’t mind paying but doesn’t want to come up short when the time comes.
“I am your driver throughout stay in Istanbul. No need for these monies, ma’am.”
She presses. “I may need an ATM.”
Another smile. More a lascivious grin.
“I make call,” he says.
—
H ER DRIVER makes three calls. She picks up more of the conversations than she thought she might. Pats herself on the back.
“Is okay,” he says, backing off the pedal a bit. “Destination, Florence Nightingale Hospital. Forty kilometers.”
Given Dulwich’s briefing about the sick mother, Grace has assumed the hospital would be an early stop. The location doesn’t help her. She works to keep the irritation from her voice. “After that? His final destination?”
He catches her eye in the rearview mirror, his mental gears clearly grinding. She’s following a man, her supposed former lover, who just landed and is heading straight to a hospital; her tone suggests she knows all this and yet somehow knows the hospital is not his final stop.
“His mother is ill, Besim,” Grace explains in a more intimate and caring tone, trying to stay a step ahead of her savvy driver. “Of course the hospital must come first. If I am to speak to him, it must follow.”
“I have address,” he says. “You desire I should drive you this place?”
“Yes. Please. Tell me, Besim, can we arrive at the hospital ahead of him?”
“It is doubtful—possible, but doubtful. Very fast driver, as you see.”
The Audi has sped out of sight since Besim’s initial backing off.
“I would like that,” she says. “No matter, I must arrive to his final destination ahead of him. I must be waiting.”
His dark eyes slide into the mirror and out again.
“He has wronged me,” she explains.
Besim keeps his thoughts to himself, but he’s an open book: she needs a good backhand to the face. A little tune-up. Eye-tunes.
“The money he gambled was mine. The money he lost. The money these other men want.” The invented story comes with surprising ease. She’s not a natural born storyteller; she’s a number cruncher.
The true story reads differently: she has left her first and one true love behind in China, both disallowed by their families from pursuing the relationship. She was eager to do so; he refused, held tightly by the family reins. Besim doesn’t need to hear this. For him she is translating the language of the heart to the language of money.
Stories are so interchangeable,
she thinks, wondering why lives are not.
“He has taken my
“Jealous wife. Jealous husband.” The beard puckers. He is smiling.
“I am—was—mistress to this man.” She points to the Audi. “We are going to follow him. He is not alone. He owes people money.Much money. You understand?” She points left to the Land Rover. “You see?”
“I understand.”
“I would rather not be noticed.”
“Not easy to follow during nighttime.”
She passes a good deal of cash into the front seat. He won’t want to touch her. She drops it.
“Let us make it as easy as possible,” she says, avoiding the use of confusing contractions. “Our problem is: the ones following are very good. They will be watching for people like us. They do not wish to share.”
“This, not easy, ma’am.”
No,
she thinks.
“I tell you,” he says, pulling out now, five vehicles behind the Audi, already on the job, “I know this car company.” He motions with his head. “My brothel’s nephew”—she doesn’t correct his mistake—“the brothel to his wife’s sister, he is, how do you say, radio man, this company.”
“Dispatcher.” Grace appreciates his sense of extended family, the intermarrying of cousins, the generations of business relationships between families the size of clans. Tribes. Not so very different from her native China.
“Precisely. Drivers, we together.”
“I am sure.”
“I call my brothel?” he asks. “He call nephew?”
“How much?” She doesn’t mind paying but doesn’t want to come up short when the time comes.
“I am your driver throughout stay in Istanbul. No need for these monies, ma’am.”
She presses. “I may need an ATM.”
Another smile. More a lascivious grin.
“I make call,” he says.
—
H ER DRIVER makes three calls. She picks up more of the conversations than she thought she might. Pats herself on the back.
“Is okay,” he says, backing off the pedal a bit. “Destination, Florence Nightingale Hospital. Forty kilometers.”
Given Dulwich’s briefing about the sick mother, Grace has assumed the hospital would be an early stop. The location doesn’t help her. She works to keep the irritation from her voice. “After that? His final destination?”
He catches her eye in the rearview mirror, his mental gears clearly grinding. She’s following a man, her supposed former lover, who just landed and is heading straight to a hospital; her tone suggests she knows all this and yet somehow knows the hospital is not his final stop.
“His mother is ill, Besim,” Grace explains in a more intimate and caring tone, trying to stay a step ahead of her savvy driver. “Of course the hospital must come first. If I am to speak to him, it must follow.”
“I have address,” he says. “You desire I should drive you this place?”
“Yes. Please. Tell me, Besim, can we arrive at the hospital ahead of him?”
“It is doubtful—possible, but doubtful. Very fast driver, as you see.”
The Audi has sped out of sight since Besim’s initial backing off.
“I would like that,” she says. “No matter, I must arrive to his final destination ahead of him. I must be waiting.”
His dark eyes slide into the mirror and out again.
“He has wronged me,” she explains.
Besim keeps his thoughts to himself, but he’s an open book: she needs a good backhand to the face. A little tune-up. Eye-tunes.
“The money he gambled was mine. The money he lost. The money these other men want.” The invented story comes with surprising ease. She’s not a natural born storyteller; she’s a number cruncher.
The true story reads differently: she has left her first and one true love behind in China, both disallowed by their families from pursuing the relationship. She was eager to do so; he refused, held tightly by the family reins. Besim doesn’t need to hear this. For him she is translating the language of the heart to the language of money.
Stories are so interchangeable,
she thinks, wondering why lives are not.
“He has taken my
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